You Know How To Stop Me
by mizu no hogosha
Summary: Aziraphale can't tell Crowly no when he's holding a gun to his head. He has to protect him, after all. Really short thing written when I couldn't sleep.


A/N: It is late. I am tired. I can not sleep. This thing is probably full of errors, and I sort of don't care. I lay it before you for your amusement. Also I don't own Good Omens.

* * *

><p><p>

It was the knife that pushed you over the edge. Really, to say it was Crowly seams asinine. He is a demon, after all. What more could you expect of him? The sharp tip of the knife draws a pearl of crimson from his to pale skin.

"Stop me, angel." He taunts. "You're supposed to protect, aren't you?" He presses harder, and with the blade this time. His skin gives way to a crimson trickle. You might believe that this is some sort cry for help if it wasn't for the smirk on his face. Calling it sadistic would, of course, be redundant. You reach out a hand and place it over his. "Stop..." You beg. He pulls his hand away, drawing the blade across his skin, and where it touches an angry line blossoms. "You know how to stop me." He growls.

You straddle his hips and the dark smile on his face grows. He takes the knife away from his skin and sets it within arms reach, an omnipresent threat at the edge of both of your minds. You watch him, torn and scared. When he reaches up to claim your lips you do not fight him. When he claims the rest of you, with tongue and teeth and body, it's all you can do to keep silent. Your keeping him safe, you repeat over and over and over to your heart. Lust is the lesser of two evils, you whisper to your screaming conscience.

You leave his flat early in the morning with a wobbling gate. You swear to yourself that you are _done _with him, and for a while you are. Then he calls. This time, he swears, it's a gun in his hand. You'd better come quick, he warns. He might be dissincorporated, he warns. You don't want _that_ on your pretty, angelic shoulders, do you? His mirthful glee is positively seeping through the phone line. Still, that simply couldn't be relief your feeling right now. What a ridiculous notion.

You fall into a routine like this. He find you, full of violent promises. You come. He devours you. Sometimes, when it's over and you are both laying spent and slick with evidence of your sin, you talk. In those times it's almost like the old days. You forget that his fingers gently running through your hair is a great wrong, or how angry god would be. Before you know it, however, your gone. Whisked away by time and obligations. By propriety.

In the beginning you grow anxious between his summons. You never know when you'll see him again. You find yourself in a constant state of turmoil, never sure of when he will call on you to rescue him. Eventually you stop worrying. You know it won't be long till next you see him.

After a year he doesn't even have to try to injure himself anymore. Simply the presence of a weapon is enough. Your still protecting him, you say. You _know_ he would use it, you say. The ferocity he displayed when he began his game has all but faded away. He touches you gently while a gun looms nearby. The gentle kisses he scatters about your face contrast its ever present violence. As long as it is there his arms around your waist are justifiable.

Five years come and go like this. The phone call you receive from him this day sounds the same as always. You unlock the door to his flat when you get there. (Long ago he honored your request for a key.) When you walk through the door he wraps his arms around you and you melt into him, prepared to save him once more until you notice something. His hands are empty. Frantically, you search your surroundings. Not a weapon in sight. You push him back with a mild amount of violence. "Y-yes Crowly? Why did you call?" You ask. A look of pain flashes across his face. "I thought that perhaps...after all this time-" You cut him off, abruptly. "Are you in danger or is this a social visit?" you snap.

By his expression you might have just stabbed him yourself. He opens his mouth to speak a couple of times but each of them thinks better of it. The effect looks somewhat like a drowning victim. After a long pause he walks to a drawer and withdraws a gun. He looks tired as he presses it to his temple. "You know how to stop me, angel..." He says. There is defeat in his voice. You close the distance between you and push the gun away from his temple as you wrap your arms around him. Before you can stop it a thought flashes through your mind. Which of you is truly the sinner? You banish is and vow never to think of it again.


End file.
